


The Fine Line

by loyaltybindshim



Category: Croatia NT - Fandom, Men's Football RPF
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, and luka being the god that he is, basically mario being a shit, will include future croatia nt relationships, you will love natalia i promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-17 08:38:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16512968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loyaltybindshim/pseuds/loyaltybindshim
Summary: He can’t stand her. She drives him insane. The only other thing they have in common? They’re crazy about each other.MANDZO AU:  Mario falls in love with a reporter.Natalia Pavlović is an American journalist currently documenting spots data and seeking to make a name for herself in the journalism industry.  Enter Mario Mandžukić,  who seems hellbent on stopping her from doing that.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> view an aesthetic of the story here & follow me on tumblr!
> 
> https://mariomandzho.tumblr.com/post/179367636492/he-cant-stand-her-he-drives-her-insane-the-only

Most soccer players were perfect gentlemen off the field.

Despite their violent and volatile reputations, they hardly ever gave her a hard time while she was conducting interviews. She didn’t tend to pry into their personal lives and they seemed to respect her, most of the time. A few lighthearted, impersonal questions and they’d sprint away to celebrate – or sometimes mourn – with their fellow teammates. 

Croatian soccer players always seemed particularly enthusiastic to answer her questions; jumping for the opportunity to speak out on how proud they were of their country and successes. Even their losses they took in stride, and Natalia thought their pride was honorable.

But Mario Mandžukić was a completely different story.

He was known in the industry for being brief and terse. If you wanted to know the secrets or the inside scoop about Croatia NT, you went to someone… well.. willing to talk. Mandžukić was downright rude half the time, although it was more annoying than offensive at this rate. His unwillingness was a common topic amongst reporters; most journalists either bombarded him, hoping for even a shred, or steered clear altogether. Natalia favoured the second approach after a few too many thorny encounters.

If he wasn’t completely ignoring her existence, Mario was cursing his opponents and refusing to comment on anything.

But he was interesting. And she wouldn’t mind picking at his brain for half an hour. And she wouldn’t mind knowing more about him. The world was itching to know more about Juventus’ forward, Croatia’s most controversial team member, and, without a doubt, their most prolific goalscorer. 

They knew he had a temper, and a massive salary, but beyond that it was anyone’s guess and only sporadic social media posts could connect the dots. 

So, Natalia made a promise to herself that by the end of the season she’d get him to open up. The life of a sportswriter was not all glitz and glamour, travel and free press conferences; it was grueling work and not something she particularly cared about. She didn’t want to continue to fight for scraps, or fight to write articles on subjects she was interested in. 

She supposed it could be worse, she could be writing about her sex life (or lack thereof) or dating mechanisms for Cosmopolitan – but was it so wrong that she wanted to broach out? 

She wanted to write about politics, inequality, gender-studies, law… anything! 

It would all come down to him. 

Mandžukić could very well be her passport into the corporate world of journalism. If she got him under her thumb, wrapped around her finger, she’d be able to write a stellar article about the mind of Croatia’s killer, and she’d finally be recognized. 

Even if he was an asshole. 

“Natalia? Are you listening to me?” 

No more crashing on her friends’ couch. No more being forced to cover up to ten events on the same day, and she wouldn’t have to bust her butt to get a full-time gig, either. 

She blinked herself back into reality and glanced at her co-worker, James.

Lost in her thoughts, she mouthed, “What?”

“I said, make sure you turn the volume up on your recorder, it was a little staticky last time. Must be all the equipment and whatnot.”

“Oh, right. Sorry about that. I must still be jet-legged. You almost ready?”

“Almost,” James replied with a slight shrug. 

The banquet hall was teeming with familiar faces – they were familiar in the sense that Natalia had seen them before on television perhaps a hundred times, seen their faces plastered on city buses, Facebook walls and patriotic apparel, but she didn’t know them personally – unless she’d interviewed them before. 

Soccer players milled in and out of the spacious hall whilst their public relations teams sang their praises and caterers doled out glasses of champagne and delectable hors d’oeuvre. Chandeliers glistened above, Frank Sinatra crooned from the speakers whilst an orchestra played quietly in the distance, and journalists rubbed elbows and forged ties.

Media representatives from over fifteen countries were in attendance and Natalia felt more than a little nervous at the prospect of being drowned out by all of them – she was young (and a woman) and the odds seemed stacked against her.

She sought out the easiest targets first; players, coaches and managers she knew would be willing to let a comment or two slip relating to the evening and their players’ season thus far. Mindless comments such as, “we’re glad to support charity whenever we can, and so and so is very passionate about philanthropy,” and, “what a year it’s been for the team!” 

Nothing interesting per se, but, as she liked to call it, it was ‘writing fluff.’

After speaking with a representative from Mexico, Natalia flitted toward the bar and ordered a gin and tonic. She rarely drank on the job, but there was something about having a glass in hand that made a conversation seem more intimate. It allowed her subjects to open up to her as she interviewed them; almost as if they considered her a friend. 

“Vermouth,” a warm voice requested beside her. “Please.” 

She glanced upward, instantly recognizing Luka Modric’s striking profile and wind-tossed blond hair, sitting in artful disarray atop his aristocratic forehead.

“I did not take you for the herbal type.”

Croatia’s midfielder turned his blue gaze toward her and smiled unreservedly. He was one of those, those men who tried to keep a thumb over their private life but wore their heart on their sleeve. “And what did you peg me for?”

“That depends. Are you here for business or for pleasure?” 

Modric chuckled at that, “I’ll tell you when I know. Luka Modric, but, I get the feeling you already knew that,” He remarked smoothly, offering her hand.

Natalia shook hands with the midfielder. “Natalia Pavlović.”

“Oh, you’re a Croat?”

She swallowed thickly, “my father is.”

“Well, its a pleasure, Ms. Pavlović. Are you…”

She tucked a stray lock of dark hair behind her ear. “A journalist, yes.”

“I couldn’t tell for a moment. Most reporters–they’re like vultures.” As if realizing what he had implied, Luka’s cheeks bloomed red and he shook his head meekly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sure it’s a rewarding profession.”

“No offense taken. I completely agree, most of the time anyway. I don’t suppose this is an inappropriate time to ask if I could ask you a few questions?”

“Su–.” 

“Luka,” a deeper-voice beckoned, sidling up to the captain and barely glancing at Natalia. It was Mario, of course. Who else would ignore her presence like a mouse? “Dalić wants you. Some dense reporter needs a statement or something of the sort and he wants to clear the air.” He rose his brow, gesturing with his pointer finger between the two, “am I interrupting something?”

“No! No, I mean, no,” Natalia shook her head.

“I’m definitely interrupting.” 

“We’ll finish another time, Mr. Modric. A pleasure to see you again, Mr. Mandžukić.” 

“We’ve met?”

“Three times,” she retorted. 

“Natalia was just about to conduct an interview, can it wait?” 

“Five minutes, please. I don’t want Dalić to shoot the messenger.”

“Don’t worry, it won’t take long at all. Walk with us?” Luka asked, cocking his head toward Mario. 

Natalia nodded eagerly, a little too eagerly perhaps, and left her drink sitting on the bar top before she trotted behind the two men. Mario was taller than Luka, quite a bit taller, and though he was slender his muscles surged beneath his bespoke suit, tailored just so against his agile frame. She could see his tattoos peaking from beneath his golden cufflinks, and his dark hair was teased upward.

“Just don’t ask any empty-headed questions,” Mario snapped. 

“I’ll try my best not to,” Natalia said darkly, “Luka, what does it mean to you to represent Croatia and Zadar?”

Mandžukić grimaced, grumbling in Croatian under his breath, “doesn’t follow basic orders, check.” 

Clearly, he wasn’t aware that she could understand him as her American accent wrapped around her words. 

“It’s a huge honor to represent your country anytime,” Luka pronounced diplomatically, “whether it’s the Presidents Cup or World Cup or as an amateur, even now, at the beginning of the season. It’s a chance to make our abilities known.”

“I’m sure it is. Have you been reading the expectations for the Croatia versus Spain game? Everyone is interested to know your thoughts on Sergio Ramos. Care to share?”

“He’s a formidable player. I won’t underestimate that. It’s dangerous to underestimate your opponents.”

“Ramos would be mindful to remember that.” Mario released a low-sounding chuckle as they exited the banquet and joined the rest of their team mates, including Zlatko Dalić who was dressed in his statement white dress shirt and black slacks, his hair gelled back and curling around his earlobes and collar. 

Natalia bounded down the few steps leading toward the courtyard, nearly bumping into Mario as she did so. 

“Thank you for your time,” she murmured to Luka, her voice muffled by the sound of the fountain bubbling, “I really appreciated it. And I’ll have to try the Vermouth next time, if you swear by herbals.”

“Why don’t you stick around? We’re almost done here and the after party admittedly is the highlight of the night.” 

Natalia glanced in Mario’s direction, as if to gather his reaction, but he’d already slipped into the throng of Croatian players and was currently warding off a side-hug from Domagoj Vida, Croatia’s defender. 

Her teeth sunk into her bottom lip as she considered the offer, “you’re sure no one will object?”

Luka gave her a telltale look.

“No one?”

“You’ll be my plus-one.” 

[...]

Music streamed through the speakers and iridescent lights lit up the hotel where the after party was being held. Two different tournaments were playing on massive screens, with an additional six plasma televisions displaying games from last week, whilst bartenders dished out rounds upon rounds of shots and bouncers monitored the gambling stakes. 

Natalia entered the lobby sporting the outfit she wore to the banquet, a cream-lace cocktail dress that fell just above her knees and cinched at her waist.

She quickly became lost in the crowd, searching for a drink, or a dose of reality amidst all the opulence and pizzaz. 

Nearly colliding into the back of one of Germany’s lesser-known players, Natalia was knocked onto her feet and given a sneer by the player. “On that note,” she muttered, straightening out her dress, thankful that he hadn’t spilled beer on her, “let the torture begin.”

“Sounds like fun,” a voice whispered behind her. “I’m new here. Can I have directions back to your place?”

Natalia spun on her heel and casted a horrified look toward the man who approached her. “I beg your pardon?” 

Undaunted, he continued, “you’re lucky that bastard didn’t spill anything on your dress. It would look horrible at the dry cleaner’s, instead of on the floor next to my bed tomorrow morning.”

“I’m sorry, who are you?”

“Reporter. But you can call me Mr. Right.” 

“That may be so,” A new voice entered the mix, gripping Natalia by her elbow and causing her to gasp, “but, unfortunately, she’s with me.” 

She would’ve been grateful to anyone for saving her from the clutches of hell, but it was him.


	2. II

The beady-eyed reporter who had, moments ago, attempted to hit on her could only muster up enough strength to stare in bewilderment at Mario, like a deer caught in headlights. 

And who could blame him? 

Whether on or off the pitch, Mandžukić’s eyes could burrow holes in someone’s skull–or soul–and though he wasn’t staring at her, Natalia had to wince when the reporter cowered away, nearly feeling sorry for the poor sap. She was certain Mario could make even the strongest of men run away with their tails in between their legs, and she was no exception to the principle. 

The reporter adjusted the glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, drew in a deep breath (as if to make himself look larger than he actually was), and retreated like an army raising a white flag. He scrambled pathetically to get away from Mario’s hawklike gaze, but not before stuttering, “Didn’t realize. Won’t happen again.” 

Natalia stood in stunned silence as the usually impassive soccer player stood next to her, towering above her, his features barely revealing a glimpse of the thoughts that brewed within apart from the slight crease of discontent forming in between his brows. 

She glanced up at Mario, their proximity allowing her a rare look at his features–relaxed, yet hardened; stony, yet expressive all at once. He was even more handsome up close, she had to admit. He was very tall, and she wasn’t surprised at all that her co-workers fawned over his messy brown hair and dark, honey-colored eyes. 

But she narrowed her eyes at him and flashed a disapproving leer, still harboring a hint of sympathy for the reporter. “I can fend for myself.” 

He shrugged the broad width of his shoulders, obviously unmoved by her snappish remark. “Didn’t look like you were doing a great job at it,” he rasped, English flowing from his tongue perfectly. 

“I was attempting to be polite. They do teach that where you’re from, yes?” 

“I think the term you’re searching for is ‘thank-you’. In that case, you’re welcome.” 

She muttered begrudgingly, “thank-you, I suppose.” A thought sprung to her, and she rose a brow curiously upon her forehead, “Aren’t you supposed to be in the VIP lounge?” 

“There was a minor… disagreement,” he prevaricated, cocking his head to beckon her to follow him as he strolled toward the bar. Unable to say no, or understand why she couldn’t, Natalia followed blindly.

“Color me surprised.”

“What?”

“It’s an expression–it means, well, never mind. A disagreement with whom? And how minor?”

“Are you always this nosy?”

“Just on days that end with ‘y’. I am a reporter, you know.”

He chuckled at that, sidling up to a bar stool and pulling one out from under the countertop for her. She lifted herself onto her seat with some difficulty, pretending not to notice the smirk growing on his lips as he watched her nearly topple over, disregarding the sudden heat rushing to her cheeks. 

“S-so,” Natalia managed to stammer out. She was a writer, why were words suddenly failing her now? “What does Đilkoš drink at a bar?” 

Mario was quick to answer, “He doesn’t. He doesn’t exist. Mario, on the other hand, prefers a jack and coke.” Something over the curve of her shoulder caught his eye and he pointed unabashedly, “looks like your friend is back for blood. What’s his name?”

Natalia discreetly craned her neck to glance at the reporter sitting at the end of the bar, pointing to the margarita on the counter and then at her, as if to offer it. Natalia released a low-sounding groan, her teeth biting into her plump lower lip. “I have no idea. He looks like a… Willis. Doesn’t he? Curly hair, glasses, cleft chin?”

“Willis,” Mario said slowly as if sampling the name. He shook his head. “What a tool. Well, you know there is one way to get rid of him if he persists.”

Natalia swiveled back around to glance at the athlete, allowing a grin to grow on her features

Was he suggesting what she thought he was? Could this be her big break? How much would he divulge? Would it be a conflict of interest for her to be sitting at a bar with him? Was he even sober?

She retaliated, “Will you do an interview for me?” 

“Will you sleep with me?” Mario’s voice was smooth and husky, spoken hushedly to maintain their privacy. Of course–he was the most private man known to earth. 

Natalia’s cheeks instantly bloomed a deep scarlet. The nerve! “I can’t believe you’d ask that!” She practically squeaked, “this violates every rule of propriety–I hope you know that! I could have you reported for this!” 

“You’re not on the job right now,” he shrugged nonchalantly, glancing down at the expensive watch latched onto his wrist, “it’s almost one a.m.” 

She frowned, “work never sleeps.”

“Touché.”

“I don’t know what sort of woman you take me for, but I’d certainly never sleep with a man who can barely remember my name,” she pointed. “You haven’t even asked what I want to drink yet.” Natalia sniffed.

Groaning, Mario nearly rolled his eyes, “let me guess–some fruity drink that girl’s drink with ten thousand grams of sugar?”

“That would be incorrect. You have two more guesses.”

His eyes shifted toward her. This was a game to him, and if she knew anything from documenting his career, it was that there was nothing he loved more than a challenge. He never backed down from one–and he always played to win. 

She’d have to keep that in mind.

“Vodka,” he suggested.

“Getting warmer.”

“Gin and tonic.”

“Ding, ding, ding,” Natalia said in a sing-song voice, “I like mine dry, and don’t forget the lime wedge.”

“What a piece of work,” Mario muttered under his breath, “anything else I can get you, princess?”

She winked at him. “I’ll let you know when I think of something.” 

Drumming her fingertips against the lacquered bartop, her blue eyes trained upon his profile as he ordered their drinks in effortless Italian. Out of all the guys she’d met at bars, he was unquestionably the most handsome. 

A comfortable silence descended upon them as he pushed the glass of gin and tonic her way. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I meant for saving me from Willis. It can be a little difficult to break through in this industry with so many men–and so many men like him specifically. It’s a shame, really. All of us are so passionate about language, and he uses his degree to say things like ‘call me Mr. Right’.”

“He just wanted to get in your skirt.” Mario shrugged, an impish glint shining in his eyes, “I don’t know, I thought he was a catch. Maybe he’d be a good fuck.”

“Should I go back and ask?” 

“Definitely. Let me know how it goes.”

As she was opening up her mouth to speak, Domagoj Vida sidled up behind Mario and tugged on his white linen dress shirt, attempting to pull him off his seat. “What are you drinking?”

Mario snapped, “Nothin–.”

Without awaiting a reply, Vida lifted Mario’s jack and coke and downed it in a single gulp. His face contorted in disgust, and his blond head gave a vehement shake as the acidic liquid traveled down his throat. “Fucking vile, tastes like radioactive piss, mate,” Vida garbled in his drunken stupor.

“It’s a jack and coke, you pussy. What do you want?”

“You,” Vida said, “don’t know why–but you’re missing the fucking rager upstairs. C’mon. Next thing you know Luka’s going to do shots off Dejan’s arse at this rate.”

Mario glanced at Natalia sympathetically.

“Go, have fun.”

“Another time?” He asked, with a slight measure of hope in his voice.

“Another time.”


End file.
